


If A Tree Dies, Plant Another In Its Place

by Terra_Reiin



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!, Naruto
Genre: Acceptance, Does Madara return it? That is the question, Forgive Me, Hashirama is kinda scary tbh, Hashirama is reborn as Skull, Hashirma has a Crush, How Do I Tag, M/M, Skull gets a bit of break, They both dead, What does it matter tho, or are they?, trying something different
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:00:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23182897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terra_Reiin/pseuds/Terra_Reiin
Summary: Hashirama dug his roots deep in the land of Fire, was watered in the blood shed by his clansmen and bathes in the light of Konoha's faith and adoration. 'A strong young tree.' His father had once called him, and it is almost enough to hide the sheer disgust in his eyes as he beholds his monster of a firstborn.Skull is cut adrift, clippings in the wind. He wants and wants and wants, with no respite. Rooting in Italian soil is wrong, so wrong, but it is all he has left.Then one day he looks up and meets those achingly familiar eyes and-Everything changes.
Relationships: Senju Hashirama/Uchiha Madara
Comments: 31
Kudos: 276
Collections: Blank Slate 2.0, Identity Crisis





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I wanted to try something different.  
> Another Skull fic because...well, I'm me lol.  
> Hope you guys like it!  
> Do comment and let me know what you think! I'm always open to trying to improve~

_I saw a tree by the riverside one day as I walked along,_

_Straight as an arrow,_

_And pointing to the sky, growing tall and strong._

Hashirama had met Madara by the river. He'd hid his clan mon and worn his plainest clothes and it is enough, _just_ enough of a veneer for them to keep meeting, day after day after day. It is bliss. 

'Is this what having a best friend feels like?' He thinks, watching the play of dappled sunshine dance over his friends pale cheeks and twine in his lashes, lashes so long they curled upon his pinked cheeks as he slept. Madara isn't _really_ sleeping as he lies there next to him, but it is the thought, the sentiment of it all that sends his heart dancing in his chest. Hashirama empathetically _doesn't_ touch him even though he really, _really_ wants to. He does allow himself to tangle his fingers in the tips of his hair though, the tight top-knot coming loose a little, a display of contrasts, warm weaponry-roughened caramel digits against surprisingly smooth, cool black locks.

_I have roots growing down to the water._   
_I have leaves reaching up to the sunshine._

Madara's eyes crack open a sliver, revealing sharp onyx orbs, what would one day grow into a fearsome glare softened by youth and a sleepy contentment. Hashirama _really_ likes that look on his friend, can't wait to have peace so that he can give it to him every single day. Just like this, them and all their clan-mates together in harmony. He drifts off to dreams of more sun-warmed days by the river, trusting his counterpart's paranoia and his own chakra sense. 

_I am shade from the hot summer sundown._  
I am shade from the hot summer sundown-  
  


Too bad good things never last.

  
Butsuma looks at his dusty son, crown of his hair beginning to bleach from the sunshine, the faint darkening at the hem of his hakama giving away a dampness he'd failed to dry before returning. The river then. Again.

Hashirama does not flinch away from his gaze and though he does not realize it at the time, it makes things far, far worse.

"Get to training." His father says brusquely, brushing past him. "And if I catch you by the river again, you and _your...friend_ aren't going to like the consequences."

Hashirama's breath catches in his throat, head finally ducking down as he heads inside. His hands are shaking, clenched into fists so tight, he can feel the crescents being carved into his flesh. He doesn't dare slack off again.

_I'm becoming what the maker of trees_   
_Has meant me to be: a strong, young, tree._

* * *

  
_I saw a tree in the wintertime, when snow lay on the ground._   
_Straight as an arrow and pointing to the_   
_Sky and the winter winds blew all around._

Hashirama has never met his mother, but he knows from second-hand accounts that the woman had been beautiful. Hashirama may have his father's pin straight dark hair, square jaw and sturdy frame, but his eyes, his lovely warm brown-amber eyes are his mother's through and through. His clan-mates have made more than one comment when he appeals to them, that saying no to his pleading eyes feel as if they are denying her things even from the Pure Lands and it uncomfortable beyond belief. Hashirama tries not to take advantage of this unless he needs to, he _is_ still a ninja after all, because his clan-mates are already uneasy enough with his unnatural proficiency with the Mokuton and he'd rather not strike the tinder on that particular issue. 

What Hashirama doesn't know is this. He had been a winter baby, not long for this world as he was born. 

_How do you grow so straight and tall?" I said to my wintertime tree._

They'd tried to cut him from his mother that day, but the umbilical cord had been thick, rough- almost vine-like and far too numerous for them to chop off completely as the continued to grow, and continued to attach what the midwives were horrified to realise was a parasite to its host as the crying infant drained the screaming woman dry. The newborn spawn finally stopped crying, cooing as it laid in its cradle of branches, the woman who had once been it's mother, dried out and dark, bark-like to the touch. Her eyeballs limp balloons, hanging from her gaunt cheeks, the excited new mother now frozen in a rictus of horrified pain.

  
_The fruit borne is a sign of the life in me._

_I am becoming -  
_

_I am meant to be, a strong, young, tree._

Butsuma had vomited when he saw what became of his wife.

He married another woman within the year.

* * *

Hashirama loses.

He crumbles to dust at the feet of his...Reincarnation? Successor in the cycle of the Six Paths? with a faux smile, a smile bright, warm and proud, until the disintegration reaches nose and they can't see his mouth any longer. Only then does he let his grin fall.

It is not that he isn't proud, he _is ,_ of the boy turned man who bloomed sunshine bright even in the face of adversity, even as his hands muddy with the blood of friend and foe alight. He will be a good Kage. Hashirama can rest easy that the fate of their village, and it's _theirs_ , not just his because it was Madara's dream as well, is in good hands. But still-

Hashirama turns what is left of his head, to behold the Madara who was a patch work of a ridiculous amount of grafted power-ups and sheer skill and can't help but feel a smidgeon of regret. Madara is crumbling before his counterpart as well, the man who is the last of his Clan and bears Izuna's face. Madara won't look at him, but Hashirama can tell by the relaxed line of his shoulders that his oldest friend (and he is a friend, no matter their broken bond which is a piecemeal of betrayal and shattered dreams) has found some form of peace.

Still...

_I've got roots growing down to the water._   
_I've got leaves growing up to the sunshine._

'We could have been so much more.' is his last thought, before he fades away. _'I wish-'_

* * *

The next time he opens his eyes, he can barely see, but he is swaddled and warm and someone is singing to him.

He bounces in time with their steps, dappled sunlight filtering through the long hair that drifts over his face, silky and a lovely bright hue that reminds him of nightshade flowers.

_I saw a tree in the city streets where buildings blocked the sun._   
_Green and lovely, I could see it gave joy to everyone._

He can just make out the words and the sweet smile the person holding him shoots his way as he shifts. She runs fingers through his own short tuft of hair and he immediately cracks out a yawn, snuggling into her instinctively. He babbles nonsense at her. Tired, so very tired all of a sudden.

_How do you grow in the city streets?" I said to my downtown tree._

He- another yawn. He'd just have to find out, wouldn't he?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this is a little short, I wanted to establish a bit of a baseline before getting on with the plot. Don't worry, then next bit will be extra long~
> 
> Thanks for all the hits, kudos and comments guys! 
> 
> It feeds my little gremlin writing hands. XP

An odd thing of note in the annals of Konohan history was that the Senju Clan believed in the Cycle of Samsara. It was a rare belief back then as no shinobi was fond of the idea that going against a certain moral code, one that _changed_ depending on the scripture would affect their life in the next. Most shinobi took offense at being told they would be bugs for their crimes in carrying out the trade. Punishment for killing thy fellow man and what not. Well, not the Aburame, they were odd like that, but most anyone else. They much preferred the idea that one was dead and done and shunted off to the Pure Lands and no more had to be said on the matter.

Still, the Senju believed in the cycle, that the sins of the life before would carry on the next, fated to happen once again. It had been strange to find out it was one of the few things they shared with the Uchiha Clan. Though, considering their now revealed shared heritage, it made more sense. 

Hashirama had always been only peripherally aware of the Cycle's existence however. Back in his childhood, he hadn't particularly had any motivation in learning the contents of the dusty and terribly confusing scriptures. Eve then, any desire diminished when sitting next to him infinitely more clever and beloved brother for lessons and having to smile even in the face of the fear hidden in his tutors eyes as they looked at him or how they flinched away from his touch.

He'd been briefed a bit more in the final battle, of the Sage's sons, of his and Madara's successors in Naruto and Sasuke, but it wasn't a particular point of interest. From what he understood he had died once, he became the blond boy and everything would turn out fine.

Now, as he watches the star-themed mobile bob overhead in his crib, he thinks perhaps that he should have paid a _little_ more attention. 

* * *

Something had interfered with his death, he knew that much. 

The Pure Lands were in fact, what he had sighted at the end of his first life, a garden alone for him with general visits from his son and Mito, both of whom had their own residences and would visit him and the multitude of their relatives in their own time. He was, of course, welcome to pay them a visit himself, but running in other members of his Clan _(Who still looked at him with such distrust even after death, even after everything-)_ or members of the extinguished Uzumaki Clan _(Traitor, your Village, you left us, you let us be massacred)_ made things a fair bit awkward, so he refrained. 

This time though, he had been genuinely reborn. With his memories intact, which hadn't happened with his blond successor. 

Perhaps the Shinigami had gotten fed up with him? With the Impure Resurrection Technique being thrown around like candy by his Village mates, it wasn't unexpected for the death god to be a bit...peeved at being cheated his due quite so many times. He'd founded the village that continued to defy the being after all, even if he hadn't been the one to do the summoning. Somehow, Hashirama doesn't think the Shinigami was one to split hairs when annoyed. He scrunches his nose at the thought, unaware of how adorable the expression is on the face of such a tiny newborn. 

Then there was the complete reversal of circumstances regarding his birth to consider.

In his last life, he'd had a brother, a father and a large Clan to, if not welcome him, then at least have his back in battle. In this one, it seems to be only him, his mother and the multitude of old photos she curls over in the dead of night when normal infants would have been fast asleep. It isn't a bad trade off, to be honest.

His mother is far warmer to him than his father had ever had been, but he does miss his too serious, bright-eyed little brother more than he can say. Not to mention the village, his lovely Mito and little Tsu-chan who had grown up so strong and a Kage herself to boot!

_(_ _He's smiling, because of course he is, he loves them all and if his eyes shine suspiciously, well ,it is no one's business other than his own.)_

And of course, Madara who-

A flash of light interrupts him.

The grinning baby who had been wiggling happily in the crib, purple hair flopping every which way, baby-blue eyes gleaming had goes still. 

His whole body seizes in remembered tension, but he simply doesn't have the control to _do_ anything. His new eyes struggle to even focus on the source, his tiny heart pumping rapidly from the sudden onset of adrenaline. He hadn't even _heard_ anyone come in. 

Just as he considers doing something _drastic,_ long purple hair wavers into view. The bright smile is the next thing to become clear as his new mother leans over his crib to kiss him on the forehead.

"Aaah, Ainsley, you're so cute! Mama is so proud!" she coos.

Hashirama would clutch at his chest if he could, relief flooding him, but can only manage a sad little flop that lands his hand more on his chin than anything. He sighs, the sound escaping him as an adorable puff of breath from rosebud pursed lips and pinked cheeks. His mother squeals again, the black, bulky _thing_ coming up to flash at him again. He allows it, but hopes the odd ritual with the _light? reusable seal tag?_ would subside soon. He wasn't particularly fond of being blinded.

* * *

Over the course of the next few months, Hashirama, now _Ainzu-Rei_?, learns to walk, babble and be toilet trained. The flashing light ritual does not, in fact, stop much to his chagrin, though he does find out that it develops a 'photograph' as his mother called it, a piece of paper that apparently created instant paintings of a moment for the sake of _keepsakes_. It was interesting and there were more than a few ideas that popped up regarding their usefulness, but the momentary brightness continued to irritate him something fierce. 

Speaking of which.

_FLASH!_

"Aaa, Ainsley, look at mama okay? Look at mama!" she pleaded playfully, brandishing the 'camera'.

Dutifully, he flashes her a gummy grin and she practically falls over herself, taking pictures every which way. The name was odd and he had no idea how she was making that sound with her mouth, but he figures he will learn it in time.

His mother, Bianca, is very much fond of him and dotes on him every single day. Her idea of proper developmental tools for children is _interesting_ as well. The stuffed toys in gentle pastel colors and a range of clothing were akin to those he'd seen in his previous life to introduce the idea of summons, but the plastic _cooking implements and f_ _ake food_ were completely alien to him. Was this part of the family art? Poisoning of some sort? But otherwise, there wasn't a weapon nor any identifiable training in sight.

As much as it boggles him, _Ainzu-Rei_ figures he must have been born in a _civilian_ family, if anything. How exciting! Not an expectation of bloodshed in sight!  
Still, it wouldn't do to let his skills get rusty, on the off chance that he _does_ need them sometime in the future. Better prepared than dead, as the saying went. Thankfully, he is well capable of training on his own, even under her watch.

Bianca washes the dishes, humming softly and swaying before the sink to some invisible tune. Her only son, ever close, is seated in his high chair, enjoying his wonderfully _'delicious'_ meal of apple goop. 

_Ainzu-Rei_ eyes his mother carefully, making sure her back is turned. She had more than once decided to surprise him by turning around quickly and taking a shot of his constipated expression. Apparently she found it hilarious and perfect material to embarrass him with when he was older. _A proper Kunoichi trait if he ever saw one,_ but no, his mother moved with none of their lethality and a different sort of grace. Luckily, her camera is no where in sight and she has plenty of dishes to wash and dry, due to her little bad habit of letting the dishes pile up for a while. Good.

 _Ainzu-Rei_ carefully scoops up a bit of the mushed...something, holding it as steadily as his baby hands would allow at eye level. Slowly, ever so slowly, he allows a trickle of chakra to flow down his arm, into the spoon and fill the mush. He'd been a fair bit eager the past few times, resulting in various mush flavors on his face and a great big mess for his mother to clean as the food of the day _exploded_ off his spoon. But not today! He could do it!

The mush jiggles, but stays on the spoon. _'Yesssss.'_ he cheers quietly. _'Careful...'_

He tips the spoon over and-

It Sticks!

Grinning triumphantly, _Ainzu-Rei_ waves the plastic spoon every which way, mush sticking stubbornly to the implement. His control may be shot to hell, but his reserves were small, so he. Could. Finally. Do. It!

Caught in his celebrating, he isn't able to keep his chakra from surging and-

He blinks, lifting his other hand from the wooden table. A tiny green leaf had sprouted under his palm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .

**Author's Note:**

> The Lyrics are adapted from 'The Tree Song' by Ken Mendema.


End file.
